


Cicatrize

by zigostia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Drug Use, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-08
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-27 16:45:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13884948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zigostia/pseuds/zigostia
Summary: When John leaves, he will take everything he had given and more.





	Cicatrize

_John._

Sherlock wakes up. Everything aches and throbs and pounds in an incessant wave, rising and falling with his chest.

John, he thinks again, and traces his mind back to the origin of the word, flicking through the scenes—flashes, glimpses, skips of time.

_It’s too late, it’s too late, it’s too late—_

A hot jet of pain flares up in his left thigh.

It takes him a while to take in his surroundings, such is his current state, both in body and in mind. Faint alarm bells, fluttering red flags. He can’t seem to shake the feeling of _wrong._

Hard, narrow mattress. Starchy sheet pulled up to his chin. A cup of water next to his bed. Sherlock holds it in both hands and stares at the condensation clinging to the inner sides of the cup. The water trembles and sloshes against the rim.

Flashes, glimpses, skips of time: splashes, hazy and blurred-out.

There’s just one idea, one single thought, that blares in bright neon letters in his head.

Sherlock takes another sip, big enough to hurt as it slips down his throat.

Wrong. It’s all so very wrong. Sherlock throws back his head and downs the rest of the water. The empty cup falls into the sheets and tumbles onto the floor.

-+-+-+-

Mycroft props the umbrella next to the bed and takes a seat in the hard-backed chair.

“I am sorry for your loss,” he says softly.

Sherlock doesn’t bother raising his head, his eyes closed against the hospital lights. “Is that really the best you can do?”

“Forgive me. I’ve never been very good at this.”

“Deaths?”

“Bereavement.”

Sherlock says nothing.

Mycroft waits for a moment before speaking again.

“John Watson—”

A shudder goes through his body.

Mycroft stops. “My apologies.”

Sherlock grits his teeth and rests his hand against his left leg, presses hard against the freshly-patched wound, pulling himself into reality with a razor-sharp thread of pain.

“Fine,” he says. “Do get on with it.” He opens his eyes. “The testament, yes?”

Mycroft nods, tightness around his shoulders and the corner of his mouth. He clears his throat. Opens his mouth, half a word escaping before being swallowed up. The air settles thick and heavy. He has never been very good at this: grief, bereavement, mourning—people. _Emotions,_ and wave upon wave of them are billowing up, rolling out, pouring from Sherlock where he lies.

“Very well. Shall I read it to you?”

Sherlock wants to say, _You really aren’t very good at this. I see the diet isn’t working. Please just go away._

He closes his eyes and nods.

 

John has appointed Mycroft Holmes as his executor.

John has bequeathed ten percent of his assets to Harriet Watson. He has bequeathed five percent each to Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Martha Hudson, and Mike Stamford.

He has bequeathed seventy percent to Sherlock Holmes, should he survive him; otherwise forty percent of the share shall be donated to various charities, and sixty percent of the share shall be split evenly among the previous beneficiaries mentioned.

Upon death, he has requested to donate his organs, if possible. He directs his remains to be cremated, the ashes scattered through the graves of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.

He has requested his funeral to be a private service, held in St. Bartholomew's Hospital. He has requested no flowers.

He has requested a grave in the quiet corner of a small cemetery, next to the tombstone of Sherlock Holmes.

-+-+-+-

“Sherlock.” Molly smiles tremulously and raises a hand in a half-hearted greeting.

“I want to see him,” Sherlock says. His breath puffs in the air of the cold chamber.

Molly’s smile wavers. “I’m just about to do the postmortem—”

“He has a small monochromatic tattoo of a poppy on his left hip. He has a bad shoulder from a gunshot wound that aches in cold and damp weather. He has a psychosomatic limp that went away four years ago, returned two years ago, and gone away again as of six months. He is mildly allergic to penicillin. He has no history of heart disease, and does not smoke nor drink. He was shot by James Winter with a Ruger MK III. The bullet went through the fourth intercostal area and lodged in the right paravertebral muscle mass. He died within ninety seconds due to blood loss and pericardial effusion.”

Sherlock’s face feels strange: uncooperative and numb. The air feels dense, sticky, like honey and molasses.

Molly swallows and steps aside.

There is a faint outline, a bulge from the curve and contour of the body. Polyester and dyed cotton fabric, smoothed over. Cold and scratchy on Sherlock’s skin as he grips the edge.

He blinks, and there’s a split second where his mind folds in on itself and his heart pounds in his ears, his fingers tightening on the sheet, white-knuckled. For a moment, Sherlock wants to stagger back, away, run out of this blasted building, down and into Baker Street, seventeen steps up, up, up, where, maybe, maybe, maybe, he will be greeted by John Watson, in a shapeless beige jumper with a cup of tea—maybe, maybe, maybe, if only he’d go, run, wake up from this dream that’s too bright and all too real.

Sherlock grits his teeth and throws the blanket off the body.

He lifts a hand and traces it down this stranger’s face, feels the slight stubble, the smooth jawline curve. He places a fingertip on a nose, brushes a thumb over blue lips, strokes a hand down dirty-blond hair.

He brings his head down close and breathes. Antiseptic, rubbing alcohol, and latex gloves. The sillage of earl grey and orange marmalade, Tesco brand aftershave and cheap shampoo—no more, no more.

Sherlock lifts a hand and strikes it across the man’s face.

It makes a whacking sort of noise. His head lolls to the left, unresisting. There is no mark across his cheek, not a blossom of the faintest flush that gives evidence of blood beneath the skin.

Sherlock slaps him again.

Again.

Again.

Sherlock hits him, and hits him, and he can’t look away, and he hits him and hits him until he hears a shriek that doesn’t register in his ears quite correctly, muffled and damp, until a pair of arms wrap around him and drag him away.

Sherlock stares at the sheets that have been drawn away to expose the man’s chest, to the bare feet, small tag on the left toe: _John H. Watson._

Molly is saying something, high and panicked, teary and hysterical.

Sherlock scans the room. His eyes pass over Molly Hooper and come to a stop at the entrance, where a figure stands at the door.

“At least you didn’t bring your riding crop this time.”

John raises his eyes to Sherlock. He smiles.

-+-+-+-

John leans against the side of Sherlock’s chair. He’s wearing a pale blue jumper and dark blue pants.

“Are you going to tell her about me?”

The muscles on Sherlock’s neck tense up, and then loosen as he exhales, keeping a steady eye trained to the notepad on the desk in a way that gives no evidence of the dead man standing in the room.

John sighs. “That’s a no, then.”

Ella speaks first. “Why are you here, Sherlock?”

Sherlock settles back on his chair, crossing his ankles. “Because Mycroft has threatened to kill my dealer if I do not engage in this tedious practise.”

Ella purses her lips and starts to write something down.

“Oh, there’s no need for that. I’m not avoiding the subject, I’m just answering your question in the most accurate way possible. You asked why I was here. I am here because I would much rather watch you attempt to ‘treat’ me—very amusing, by the way—than go through a very long and painful withdrawal.”

Ella pauses, and then places down the pen.

“Are you really going to stay with him? You know he’s cheating on you. Comes home late wearing another woman’s perfume.”

Sherlock’s voice goes lower, quieter. “Of course you’re going to stay. Sentiment; how ridiculous, he doesn’t even love you back. This job can’t get you very far. You started working at the supermarket just to get enough money to pay the bills.

“You’re a therapist because you think that if you’ve helped enough people, you’ll be able to fix yourself. But listen very carefully: you didn’t help John. He comes to you every week and you can see him getting better. It’s not _you._ It’s _me._ I’m the reason he stopped limping. I’m the reason why he started blogging. I’m the one who returned from the dead. You couldn’t help John Watson—I could. I can’t help myself, and _you can’t help me._

“I know I’m very difficult; I do try my best. I would be perfectly happy if we’d both come to a compromise. You can show all your perfectly-written notes to Mycroft, and you’ll get your money, and I’ll keep my cocaine. Tell me, how does that sound, _Ella?”_

Ella remains very, very still and very, very silent, long enough that Sherlock registers how rough his own breathing sounds in the room.

“Not good, Sherlock,” John murmurs, leaning close.

When Sherlock turns his head, he's gone.

-+-+-+-

“Oh, god.”

Sherlock hums. “You’re back. Hello.”

“You can’t keep doing this.”

“Try to stop me.”

John’s figure is wavering, fuzzy on the edges. “Sherlock…” He swallows. “Stop it.”

Sherlock stretches out on the couch and pulls up the sleeve of his dressing gown, revealing the pale swath of skin and a splattering of track marks, too much and all new. He traces a finger across his arm like a game of connect-the-dots.

John makes a noise deep in his throat and covers his mouth with one hand, turning away. Fading away.

There's a sharp pain in his chest, a yawning hollowness, expanding with every passing second. _I’m sorry, John._

For god’s sake. He’s pathetic. John is merely a companion, _surely, it must not affect you such—_

Sherlock does not trust the accuracy of his thoughts. Two sides battle for his command and he is caught in the crossfire, with nowhere to hide and nowhere to go.

-+-+-+-

“Do you remember how he died?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick up, luminous and silvery-grey. “Of course I do. He was shot. Would you like me to go into further detail?”

“You know that’s not what I mean,” Ella says. “You _know_ how he died. But do you _remember?”_

“I don’t see how that is relevant.”

Ella softens her voice. “You have to remember, Sherlock. You can’t pretend it never happened.”

“For god’s sake,” Sherlock growls, “I’m not in denial. John Watson is dead. His heart stopped beating and his brain ran out of oxygen and he bled out soon after and died. Jot that down, will you?”

Ella presses on. “You need to remember. I know it’s hard, but please, Sherlock—”

She’s infuriating, so awfully calm, her voice so gentle, so coaxing, so patient, so—so _familiar—_

Ella sees this, the gap between the tracks. “What’s wrong?”

“You…” Sherlock shakes his head. “Stop it. Shut up.”

“What happened?” Ella persists. “Talk to me, Sherlock. Please.”

“I said shut up.” Sherlock shoves his hands through his hair.

Ella doesn’t stop. She targets the weakest link, hacks at it until it breaks.

“Let’s talk about John. John Watson, Sherlock.”

Sherlock shivers before he can stop himself. Ella hits Sherlock with a question before the moment can pass.

“What is John Watson to you?”

 

What is John to him?

John is—

John is—

A fighter, a warrior, a soldier, blood and bone and grit, bleeding onto blazing hot sands.

A dull-eyed ex-army doctor with PTSD and a psychosomatic limp—who would want him as a flatmate?

A colleague

flatmate

partner

_friend_

(more?)

John is the mug of Earl Grey in the mornings, extra milk and a touch of sugar, left on the counter. He is scorched crumbs of toast scattered over the daily crossword, a smear of jam on the corner of his mouth. He is mussed blond hair and bleary blue eyes, soft smile and bubbling laugh. He is warm and pliable, melting and molding against the bizarre, the atypical, the eyeballs in the microwave and thumbs in the fridge.

John is the shattering bang of a Browning. He is scattered splatters of coagulated blood at the tip of Sherlock’s shoe. He is bruises and burns, mangled and scarred, an angry pale pucker at the cap of his left shoulder. He is dark-tipped hair and an unforgiving grip, white knuckles and gritted teeth, eyes like polished granite, diamond edges, gleaming gun-metal grey. He is hard and unyielding, squared shoulders and jutted jaw, yes, no, that’s an _order_.

John is the footsteps that stop at Sherlock’s bedroom door. He is damp, sweaty pyjamas, an old ratty white t-shirt, bare feet on the carpet. He is a low, dark gaze and a trembling bottom lip. He is an open mouth, a beginning of a word, that falls away into a bob of his Adam’s apple and a sharp exhale. He is the dip in Sherlock’s bed, a feather-light touch of his fingers on his skin. He is hot and shivering in his arms, a shaky laugh and a weak apology that falls flat in the room, trapped in the weight of all that they are not saying.

John is a streak of silver, a stream of starlight. He is twinkling eyes and uncontrollable giggles, head ducked and turned away because, for god’s sake, it’s a crime scene. He is furtive glances across the room, raised eyebrows and tilted heads, half a wink and a shadow of a smirk; silent and seamless conversations that no one but them will ever know. He is Sherlock’s conductor, fingertips and shoulders brushing, sparking, heat zigzagging over his skin. He is the tip of a tongue wetting chapped, nibbled lips. He is the _maybe,_ he is the _perhaps,_ he is the verboten desire, midnight clandestine thoughts.

John is

_brilliant, fantastic, absolutely amazing_

_friends protect you_

_stop it. stop it now._

_you could._

_SHERLOCK_

Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock

_one more miracle. don’t be dead._

 

John Watson is the heart of Sherlock Holmes.

 

What is John to him?

 

John is

(everything)

 

_Incandescent._

 

 

-+-+-+-

“Stop it. Stop it now.”

Sherlock blinks. The room sways, bobbing over tempestuous waves.

The air around him crackles and buzzes, sizzles and pops. “You’ve had too much,” John says, a tremor beneath a barely-kept mask.

Sherlock gazes at John impassively. 

“Do you think,” he says, “that if I have enough, I’ll be able to touch you?”

John stumbles back.

“No,” he says vehemently. “No, Sherlock. Don’t be an idiot.”

A smile curls on Sherlock’s face. He raises his hand and sees that his fingers are shaking. “Would it be so bad?”

“Sherlock!” John shouts. “Stop it! Stop it now!”

The smile turns bitter. “John, as usual, you cannot understand.”

John’s eyes are dark and stormy, glimmering with anger. “I’m dead! I’m you! You can’t even listen to yourself!”

Sherlock opens his mouth—

The entire flat lurches to the side and the floor rushes up to meet him.

 

Sherlock wakes up. There is someone drilling holes into the side of his skull, hammering nails through his ears.

He winces.

“Oh. You’re awake.”

With much difficulty, Sherlock turns his head.

“Molly,” he says, hoarse and scratchy, his throat full of gravel.

He takes another second, and frowns. “This isn’t a hospital.” He tries to sit up and immediately regrets it.

He groans and lies back down, covering his face with a hand. “Tell Mycroft to find something better to do other than watch me get high.”

Molly utters a quiet curse. Sherlock feels a prickle of surprise in the back of his mind.

“Get up,” Molly says, a high hysterical note behind her voice.

Sherlock peeks at her through a crack in his fingers. “Given my current state?”

Molly grits her teeth. _“Get up.”_

Sherlock rolls his eyes and swings his legs off the couch, pushing himself up into a sitting position. He winces again. “You’re a terrible doctor. No wonder you only do post-mortems.”

“For the love of god, Sherlock, get up!”

Sherlock gently eases himself onto his feet. He presses a hand to his forehead, swaying slightly, and gives Molly a baleful look. “There. Happy?”

Without warning, Molly backhands him across the face.

Sherlock staggers, and then straightens, a hand on the red welt he can feel forming already.

“How dare you,” Molly says, her words like knives, sharp and ruthless. “John _died_ for you. He took a bullet through the heart so you would be standing here.” She slaps him again, across the left cheek this time. “John died to give you every second of the rest of your life, and what are you doing with it?” Another, the right side again. “You’re spitting on his grave. You’re taking all he’s given you and tearing it apart, letting it _rot._ John is _dead,_ Sherlock. Because of _you._ Is this how you repay him?”

Molly draws back, breathing hard. She wipes a sleeve across her face.

“What would he say if he saw you like this? Think about it—you have the rest of your life to do so.”

She gives him a final look, and then walks away. The door closes with a bang that echoes through the empty flat.

-+-+-+-

 _When is the funeral? SH_  

Thursday at 2. Are  
you coming?

 _I’ll be there. Do you_  
require me to present  
an eulogy? SH

I have one, but it’s  
pretty shit. Do you  
think you could?

If it’s not too much to  
ask. You don't have to.

_I’ll do it. SH_

OK. I’ll see you then.

Thank you, Sherlock. I  
know it’s hard. It’s hard  
for everyone—but  
especially you.

If you need anyone

That is, when you’re  
ready

I know I’ll never be  
able to be what John  
was to you, but

I’ll always be here.  
If you ever want to talk.

_I’ll keep that in mind. SH_

_Thank you, Greg. SH_

-+-+-+-

The coffin is cherry wood, with a polished grain and a gold-lined edge. Simple at first glance: a closer look reveals intricate designs, engraved on the surface. A text near the foot of the coffin when the light hits it just right: _John Watson, to the very best of times._

It is a small crowd. Mrs. Hudson. Molly. Ella. Three-quarters of Scotland Yard. A few soldiers. A smattering of exes. No sign of Mary: any traces of Mary Morstan had seemingly disappeared overnight. There's something about her that prickles at the back of Sherlock’s mind—but it doesn’t matter anymore.

Harriet arrives late with whiskey on her breath (but Sherlock cannot blame her). John’s parents have both passed away—Harriet is the only one left, Sherlock thinks. And then: no. Harriet _and_ himself.

From them pour bits and pieces that fit together to form the story of John Watson. Sherlock listens silently, and very carefully jots down in his mind every tidbit and fact. He learns that John once took a stray kitten into his room and fed it tuna from a can until it died of sickness. He learns that John once carried a soldier with a broken leg half a mile from the fields. He learns that John kept a drawer full of sweets in his office to give to children getting shots.

When the time for the eulogy comes, Sherlock feels as if he is floating, his feet hovering off the cold linoleum floor as he makes his way to the front. His left leg complains, but the pain is null and inconsequential.

Sherlock scans the crowd: dark and damp. Black jackets, black hats. His own coat settles its heavy weight over his shoulders. He thinks he can still smell it, the sharp, metallic tang. Soaked into the fibres of the fabric.

Sherlock closes his eyes, counts three seconds, and then begins.

 

“I met John Watson in this very building. I saw from his tan, his mannerisms, and his phone, that he was an injured soldier with a psychosomatic limp, who had an alcoholic sibling who recently walked out on his wife.

When I told him this, John said that I was amazing. I had never expected… anything like it. Anything like him.

On our very first case together, John shot a man to save me. I was certain, from that night, that he was going to change my life—but just how much, I would never have known.

Two and a half years ago, I stood on the rooftop of St. Bart’s. Two and a half years ago, John answered his phone and listened as I lied to him, watched as I stepped off the edge and fell.

For two years, I was dead. For two years, John visited my grave. For two years, John asked me for one more miracle.

Five months prior, I came back.

Five days prior, we received a new case.

Five days prior, James Winter shot John Watson through the heart.

John. I will not ask you for a miracle. I had not returned from the dead in a miracle. Miracles do not exist, and if they did, I would not know how to perform one. Death is inevitable. It is the pure, simple logic; the cold, hard truth that I hold above everything else. It is what it is.

However. With that being said. And yet.

You refuse to leave my mind. From the day we met to the day you died, you have slipped your way into a spot in my head, a room in my Palace. I am unable to destroy it. I do not think I can. I find you everywhere, from the voice of my therapist to the colour of the sky. You follow me everywhere, and I cannot let you go.

I have never felt anything like this ever before, and I doubt I ever will. You are—you are my other half. You are my heart, and I am not complete with only a mind. I will feel the void you have left behind until the end of my days.

You gave your life to save my own. You have bestowed a debt upon me that I do not feel worthy of having, one that I do not know how to repay.

I cannot promise a miracle, but I can promise you this. I will treasure every moment I have spent with you, and I will cherish every moment afterwards. You have given me a second chance, and I will not live it in vain, in emptiness, in regret.

John Watson, you have changed and bettered me in a thousand ways, and I have the rest of my life to prove it to you.”

 

He is standing in front of him. His eyes are wet, a trail of tears down his cheek, but he’s smiling, beaming, so wide it looks like it hurts.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock. He is no denser than air, and Sherlock can feel none of his touch, but the spirit seeps into his cracks, mending and knitting together the broken half of a heart, sealing it with a scar that will never fade away.

Moments later, John disappears. Sherlock has an inkling that it will be the last time.

He retreats into the aisles. He makes it halfway before being stopped.

“Sherlock,” Ella says quietly.

She is holding out an envelope.

Sherlock takes it. He runs a finger down the edge, smoothes his thumb over the small, cluttered handwriting on the back: _Sherlock,_ it reads simply. Pilot Metropolitan fountain pen, light and hesitantly drawn, ink dragged across cream-coloured paper. A small smudge near the S of his name where a left hand lay.

“I…” The floor sways beneath his feet. “This is…”

“After you came back from the dead, we talked—quite a bit. If he were to go before you, he didn’t want to leave anything unsaid.” Ella tilts her head to one side. “I wasn’t sure whether telling you would do good or bad, but I think you deserve it now.”

Sherlock tucks the envelope into his coat.

“Thank you,” he says steadily. “And—congratulations.”

His eyes land on Ella’s right hand, where her fingers lay bare. “Finally came to your senses, I see.”

Ella smiles. "I'll see you, Sherlock."

Sherlock watches her walk away, and then turns around. He quickly finds himself engulfed in a hug.

“Thank you,” Lestrade says, his voice choked.

Sherlock's hands slowly come up to rest at Lestrade's back.

A mobile buzzes.

Grimacing, Lestrade pulls away. “Sorry.”

Sherlock watches him. “It’s a case, isn’t it?”

Lestrade nods grimly, scanning his phone.

“You need my help,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade looks uncertain. “I—er, yes, but. Well.”

“I'll take it,” Sherlock says. “You can text me the details. I’ll have a look tomorrow morning. Not tonight.” He feels the envelope against his heart, hears Ella’s words in his ear _(you have got to remember)._ “I’m busy tonight.”

-+-+-+-

_By the time you’re reading this, one out of two things will have happened._

_First case scenario: you have somehow gotten this letter from Ella’s hands. Very unlikely, but I’ve learned to consider all the possibilities after being with you for so long._

_Other, more probable scenario: I have died._

_I thought about this a lot. Death, that is. What happens afterwards. Not to me, but to everyone else—especially you. Mostly you._

_If I died from a case (which is more than likely), I want you to know that it wasn't anyone's choice but mine. When I chose to stay with you, I took that risk._

_Of course, this is all assuming that I will die before you. Which is a bit of a stretch, considering your drug habits and recklessness and your complete lack of any sort of self-preservation whatsoever_

_Sorry. What I’m trying to say is, if I die before you, I don’t want to leave you just like that. You probably know everything I'm about to say (probably better than I do) but fuck it. I'm saying it anyways._

_I have a confession to make._

_You probably know. Definitely know. Obviously, you'd say._

_I love you, Sherlock. Always have._

_I know it's a bad time. For both of us._

_I love Mary, but you were the first. Before anyone, you were always the first._

_If I’m dead, I want you to know this._

_I won't be there to clean up after your experiments, now, so please be nice to Mrs. Hudson. And, for Christ's sake, eat your meals and get enough sleep, will you?_

_Play something on the violin for me. Go solve an impossible case like the genius you are. Go on. Be brilliant._

_Yours,_

_John_

-+-+-+-

Sherlock opens his eyes to an inky darkness, muffled surroundings, and a low, scratchy voice.

“Christ,” goes a mutter next to his ear, and Sherlock’s mind goes completely and utterly blank for one millisecond, explodes into a thousand different directions the next, and then zeroes in on a single thought, a single word, where it then stays, fixated, like a broken record.

John.

_John._

John’s voice goes straight into his ear, his _right_ ear, and he can feel warm breath tickling against his face and— _oh, god_ —Sherlock can feel John, their shoulders pressed together and arms and sides and legs and heat and fucking corporeal, _John._

“It’s bloody freezing in here,” John continues, unaware.

Sherlock wants to move. He wants to grab John by the shoulders, run his hands down his face, his neck, his arms; he wants to shrink down and curl up against John’s chest, where, in this instant, a heart beats steady and strong.

Instead, he opens his mouth. “According to my calculations, he should arrive in at most another hour.”

“An _hour?”_

“Patience, John.”

“We should’ve turned on the heating.”

“Ah, yes, an unoccupied hotel room with the heating already on. Now shut up, unless you want him to find a talking closet along with it.”

John huffs and rolls his eyes. He shifts closer, his body searching for heat. Sherlock's heart desperately throws itself against his ribs, hammers and pounds with traitorous, reckless abandon.

It’s coming, Sherlock knows—does not remember, but knows. Knows that, in a few short moments, his world will tilt and spin and topple off its axis.

Soon it will all come.

Soon.

Sherlock wants to laugh. He wants to cry. He wants to hit someone, John, himself. He wants to capture this moment, this one single scene, and live in it forever; that will be enough, _oh please, can’t you see_ —but it isn’t. Sherlock wants to haul John onto his feet, to jump out the window and sprint, together, adrenaline singing in their veins, hearts pounding and fingers interlocked. He wants to take John’s face in his hands and snog him breathless, wants to take him apart. He wants James Winter to drop dead of cardiac arrect, to realize he’s forgotten his wallet in the car, to answer a phone call and walk away while speaking.

He wants—oh, how he wants.

Footsteps drift in from outside the door.

John stiffens ramrod straight. He grips his gun with his right hand.

John turns his head and Sherlock looks at him for the first time, his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

In this instant, both present and past, Sherlock looks at John and thinks that, in his lifetime of beauty and pain, heartbreak and healing and sorrow and love, John Watson is the most devastating thing he will ever come to see.

 

The door opens. The lights flicker on.

John springs out.

Sherlock follows right behind. His thoughts are beginning their downward spiral, sucking him in and pulling him under, the timer ticking _soon, soon, soon._

 _How._ In the middle of Sherlock saying the word _how,_ James Winter whips out his gun from inside his coat and pulls the trigger.

A frame per second.

Sherlock’s mind kicks into overdrive, stutters, reels back and erupts into a frenzy. He had not been careful enough— _stupid!_ A winter coat, so bulky and big, such a hateful, simple-minded, addle-brained thing to miss—this isn’t good, this is so very not good.

The man is a crack shot, that much is evident from his previous victims. A whip-sharp mind does little to stop from a bullet to his heart. Sherlock watches as the man’s index finger squeezes past the breaking point; there is nothing that will stop it now.

As the bullet exits the barrel of the gun, it suddenly dawns on Sherlock that he’s failed to consider the most important factor.

The realization hits as soon as his mind clicks.

Time resumes its normal pace.

Something very small and very powerful slams into Sherlock’s side.

There’s a single moment, a split second, where his vision goes white with the pain it’s prepared itself for, his body jerking as he hits the ground.

Then there’s an explosion of sound, followed instantaneously by the sickening, unmistakable noise of a bullet hitting its target; a hoarse, punched-out cry of pain.

Sherlock blinks.

John comes into crystal-clear focus, gasping and shuddering, writhing on the floor.

The floor yanks out from Sherlock’s feet and he plunges into the deepest trench in the sea; he breathes in and water fills his lungs.

He stares and stares and stares at John, at the red oozing, dripdripdripping down the hole in his chest.

John looks down at himself, and then meets Sherlock’s eyes.

“Sherlock,” John says, and whimpers.

Blood runs down and eclipses Sherlock’s vision.

(When Lestrade fills out the police reports that night, he will write that the shot was taken by John Watson. Homicide charges against a dead man. No one will mention the fingerprints, or the bruises, or the fact that the bullet is from a Glock and not a Browning. Even when he is dead, John will continue saving Sherlock, over and over again.)

Sherlock falls to his knees. He tears off his coat. A button skitters off, bouncing along the carpet. A spot in his left thigh sizzles like water on a hot skillet.

John grits his teeth as Sherlock presses the fabric into his chest, harder than he should. His hands are shaking so badly he must be doing more harm than help.

“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”

Grope for his phone, spit into the speaker: “John’s been shot, come _now.”_

He can feel John’s pulse through his coat, and he can’t tell the exact rate anymore, only knows that it’s fastfast _fast._ The timer is deafening, roaring in his ears.

“You—” John shudders and bites down, hard, trying to keep himself from making a sound—“Your leg.”

“While I do appreciate your concern,” Sherlock murmurs, “that is not the most important thing at the moment.”

John smiles. Halfway out, it turns into a grimace. “Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah.”

A dark red blossom blooms over Sherlock's coat, growing larger.

John swallows. “Sherlock, I. I don’t think I’m gonna—”

“Shut up, shut up, shut _up,”_ Sherlock hisses, blinking furiously. He presses harder.

John’s legs twitch and kick. Despite all his efforts gone to conceal it, a whimper escapes him. Someone takes a pair of pliers to Sherlock’s heart and _twists._

Straight through the major artery. Hit the bullseye. He isn’t going to

_(no, no, no, no, no)_

Sherlock breathes in, hard, and something breaks inside of him.

“John, if you have ever cared about me—if I have ever done anything worthwhile—you will do this one thing for me. One thing, John.” He takes an unsteady breath, shards of broken glass lodged into the lining of his chest, hot tears dripping onto the back of his hands.

“Stay. Damn it, John, stay with me.”

John shudders. He’s making tiny little sounds, held-back gasps and whimpers.

Sherlock drops his head to John’s shoulder to muffle his own. “I’m sorry,” he says into John’s skin, “I’m so sorry, John, I’m _sorry.”_

John’s blinks are taking longer; no longer able to hide the convulsions of his body, his head lolling to the side. No, Sherlock thinks, god, no, _please_ —there’s too much blood, too much, running in rivulets down John’s sides and mixing with his own, staining Sherlock’s skin—

“Sherlock?” John’s voice is down to a whisper.

“John,” Sherlock begs. “Stop this. Stop it. It’s not funny.”

John’s eyes focus painfully on Sherlock. “You were the best—the very best—Sherlock.”

“No,” Sherlock says, “shut up. Tell me later.”

“Sorry.” John smiles, his face a maelstrom of emotions. Sherlock will have the rest of his life to decipher them all.

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock,” John says, and his heart, the heart of a doctor, a soldier, and a friend (the _only_ one), the heart that’s been through two very different battlefields, two very different wars, one in Afghanistan and the other in London; his heart, where a consulting detective in a Belstaff coat sweeped in and made it his home; a heart that’s been broken and bruised and battered beyond belief, a heart that’s ached and yearned and longed for so much for so long; a heart, stubbornly pounding away as he flirted with death and danger, peril and pitfalls, an everlasting backdrop—his heart takes its final bow, and ceases.

 

There is a moment of perfect blankness, the scene suspended in time.

Then, something _rips_ through Sherlock’s chest. Everything, from the pale periwinkle on the very edges of John’s sleeves to the creamy beige of the walls to the dark, dark red of everything else—everything leaches away, draining the world into shades of grey—and then the lights go dimmer and dimmer and dimmer and everything turns to black.

His coat dissolves in his hands.

Sherlock _screams._ He screams until his throat tears and burns, screams until his shoulders shake, screams until his voice gives out. Then, he sinks to his knees in the pitch black darkness and weeps.

 

An eternity. That’s how long it lasts.

Then, there’s a hand on his shoulder. A palm pressing his cheek. A hushed and heartbroken murmur.

Strong arms wrap around Sherlock’s body. Sherlock gasps and shakes, clutches pale periwinkle cashmere—spotless. He sobs into the soft material that stretches across a warm, strong chest, and is greeted by the scent of Earl Grey, orange marmalade…

“John,” Sherlock says,  _“John.”_

John hushes him. “Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you, darling.”

Everything comes crashing down.

 _“John.”_ Sherlock takes himself closer, closer, not close enough—John is everywhere (he’s _everything);_ he’s tearing at the seams, spilling over the edges, there is nothing, nothing else, nothing except for _JohnJohnJohn._

He wants everything, everything, _fuck,_ he wants to climb inside John’s body, he wants John to take him apart, bit by bit, until there’s nothing left; he wants John to own him, engulf him, swallow him whole.

“I can’t,” Sherlock says, “I can’t do this.”

“I know, darling. I know. Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sobs, _“John.”_

“Sherlock,” John says, and it’s a prayer, a blessing, a benediction; Sherlock will sink to his knees in front of this man, he will tear down his Palace and build a temple in its place _—_ he will carve out his heart and give it to him—it was never his in the first place—

“I love you,” Sherlock says, his voice racked and ruined, strangled and spent.

John goes still. His arms begin to loosen—

And then he says it back.

Neurons explode in Sherlock’s mind, starbursts and sunrises, glitter and gold— _incandescent._

“I love you,” John whispers fiercely into his ear, “I love you, Sherlock, I’ve loved you forever.”

Sherlock kisses him.

Everything fades away. Sherlock is a dying star in the universe, a supernova in his arms, drowning in his own destruction.

“Please,” Sherlock gasps, speaks, “John, I love you, I never said—”

John kisses him, softer, sweeter. “I knew. I always knew. Everything you did, Sherlock.”

“I miss you.” Tears come in waves, lapping up and spilling out, salty on his lips.

“Oh, Sherlock,” John murmurs. “Oh, love.” He touches a hand to Sherlock’s cheek, the pads of his fingers rough and slightly scratchy. Ulnar loops, Sherlock thinks, radical on the pinky. Whorl on the thumb.

“I’m dead, Sherlock. You have to move on.”

Sherlock is trapped in his own heart. He can feel every single beat surrounding him, pounding around him, suffocating him. “What if I don’t want to?”

“It’s not good, Sherlock, you know it’s not good.”

“I can’t help it,” Sherlock whispers.

John’s face crumples for the merest of moments. “I know,” he says.

Sherlock presses his hands against John’s chest, feels the cashmere fabric; beneath that is John’s skin; beneath that is tissue and sinew and muscle and bone; beneath that is his heart—both of theirs.

“You’ll stay with me?” he asks.

John’s arms tighten. “You know I can’t.”

Sherlock pulls back just enough to see John’s face. Every follicle of skin, every strand of hair, every detail of John is neatly filed away. Every bump, curve, and crevice, from the slightly-crooked mouth to the dip of his nose to the dark indigo speckles in his eyes.

“You’ll wait for me?” he asks.

John exhales. “Until the very end, Sherlock.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

“Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

John kisses him. It sears in a white-hot flame that spreads, seeps, and consumes them both until there is nothing but light.

 

_John._

 

Sherlock wakes up.

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not well-versed in most of the things in this fic—please forgive me for any errors!
> 
> "You'll stay with me? Until the very end" is a quote from Harry Potter.
> 
> Now with a stunning cover art AND an absolutely beautiful continuation fic by allsovacant <3

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover] Cicatrize](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15188804) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)
  * [all ends well](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15243906) by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)




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